Old cars... from YOUNGBLOOD of INQUIRER.net

YOUNG BLOOD
Old cars
By Jean Pierre P. Dadufalza
Inquirer
Last updated 01:29am (Mla time) 03/20/2007

Aside from having a keen interest in the inner workings of the human body, which led me to become a physician, I also have an intense passion for cars. I am not your average twentysomething that lusts after the latest and the fastest exotic car you can find in "Top Gear." I go for old cars from the 1940s or 1950s.

My dream of owning and restoring an old classic car turned to reality when someone finally answered the ad I posted in the Internet: "Looking for old classic American cars from the '40s or '50s, preferably with the original engine and transmission."

The first text message I got said: "1979 Toyota Macho classic car, rare, fully loaded." I didn't know if I should laugh or cry. But after four days, I got the reassurance that someone still knew what the words "classic" and "old" meant, as far as cars were concerned. The message said: "You might be interested in a 1957 Chevy sedan."

I couldn't believe what I read and couldn't wait to see the car. The following day, I told my brother about my rare find (we share the same passion) and off we went to see it. After a minute or two of knocking at the gate, a housemaid approached us. We were led in after we told her we were the guys asking about the car.

Our jaws dropped at the sight of the huge car. It was indeed a 1957 Chevrolet sedan, a Two-Ten to be precise. It shares the same body and looks with any Chevrolet Bel-Air of that era except that it was a different model. We marveled at the car that was as huge and majestic as a ship. It had a two-tone, red and white paint, a curved roof that was almost round like a Volkswagen Beetle's, a windshield that wrapped around the corners to the A-pillars, and, of course, the unmistakable trademark tail fins accentuated by chrome trim. The '57 Chevy is an icon of the 1950s, "the undisputed star of the fabled 'Tri-Five' ('55-'56-'57) Chevy era," as "Automobile Magazine" put it.

As we continued to stare at the car, an elderly lady approached us. She introduced herself as the widow of its owner. We asked her if we could give it a closer look.

The doors opened perfectly. It was like entering a time machine that zapped us back to 1957. The windows could be rolled up and down smoothly. Everything inside was original. I closed the door and it emitted a solid thud. Unbelievable.

The hood had two chrome rocket ornaments on top and we popped it to reveal the original "stove-bolt" 235 cubic-inch (4.0L) straight-six engine. The air cleaner and radiator were original, and so with the single-barrel Rochester carburetor. Perfect.

The lady invited us inside the living room as soon as we were through inspecting the car. We asked if the price she had quoted in her message was fixed. She smiled and said it was. We didn't have the heart to haggle for a discount. After all, it was worth more than what she was asking. We sealed the deal.

Then, it was time to pull out the Chevy. The truck backed up into the driveway and lowered its bed. A heavy chain was tied to the rear axle and attached to the winch's cable. I took the wheel to steer the car into position. Full power was applied to the winch but the car wouldn't budge. Of course, I'd forgotten to shift to neutral.

I tried to get the column-shift to neutral, but the lever was stuck. I crossed my fingers and depressed the clutch and hoped it would work (a broken crankshaft was unimaginable). I heaved a sigh of relief when the car slowly inched its way out to the driveway.

The widow watched as the car was slowly winched onto the truck's bed. Her eyes filled with tears as she touched the Chevy for the last time. We've bought second-hand automobiles before but no separation between automobile and owner were as heartbreaking to witness as this one. Here we were, my brother and I, two young guys taking possession of an old automobile which would soon be our pride and joy, while there was Nana Flor, parting with their first car, a treasure trove of memories.

She handed us a Borg-Warner carburetor repair kit and a complete front suspension repair kit and requested that we take her for a ride when we were done with the restoration. We promised we would and then left.

We reached the mechanic's shop for the first stage of the restoration project: rebuilding the engine. I would have preferred to entrust the task to Uncle Ren, but since he was in the United States, I looked for another mechanic who was up to the job. I wanted someone who knew his way around American cars. With some luck, we found Mang Ed who knows these cars like the back of his hand. When he saw the Chevy, he said he was reminded of his days as a young man.

For the next couple of weeks, he pulled out and disassembled the engine and took the block and crankshaft to the machine shop for a re-bore. I scoured Binondo for pistons, connecting rod bearings, main bearings, valves, gaskets and the like. I was surprised to find out that some shops still had lots of unused spare parts for cars as old as our Chevy.

It has been almost two months since we brought the car to Mang Ed. Now the engine has been rebuilt and assembled, and we had it painted in the original Chevy blue.

My brother and I cannot wait to start the engine. For other people who drive their modern cars on a daily basis, it is as simple as turning the keys. For us, however, it is witnessing the rebirth of a 50-year-old car that had lain dormant for nearly 25 years. On the road to its resurrection, every step counts: pouring engine oil, filling the radiator with coolant, connecting the battery, turning on the ignition switch, cranking the engine as the glass filter bowl fills with fresh gasoline, and finally hearing the long 235-cubic-inch straight six engine sputter to life with a roar as the sparkplugs ignite the air-fuel mixture.

If you are the typical car guy who is thinking about buying another new modern sissy car that is worth a fortune, think again. Would you really like to drive what everyone else has? It's about time you experience restoring and driving an old car, where there's just you, the car and the open road ahead. It's about time you experience the joys of more than four cylinders and raw power without distractions, such as a dozen buttons, electronic gadgetry and hi-tech stuff. If your grandpa or dad has an old car in his garage, now is your chance to restore it and re-live history.

Jean Pierre P. Dadufalza, M.D., 27, is also a microbiologist.

Copyright 2007 Inquirer. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY, MARCH 17, 2007

 

The Saint Patrick's Day Parade starts at 44th Street & 5th Avenue. It travels north on 5th Avenue to 86th Street, then travels east on 86th Street to 3rd Avenue. 

Getting There Take any subway to the Midtown area between 42nd and 86th Street | Walk to 5th Avenue | Do not drive 

The first St Patrick's Day parade in New York City was held in 1766 organized by Irish soldiers serving in His Majesty's service. City folk marched for any and all reasons back then, usually organized along fraternal, trade or military organizational lines. The early St Patrick's Day marchers would form up at their parish churches or their organizations' headquarters and march to the Old St Patrick's Cathedral (now at Mott and Prince Streets). The Archbishop greeted the groups, dignitaries and politicians addressed the crowd and the marchers dispersed in search of a bit of St Patty's Day pleasure.

As the City moved uptown so did the parade, marching to the far reaches of the City and the site of the new St Patrick's Cathedral on Fifth Avenue and 50th Street. Today's parade starts at 42nd Street and marchers travel north to 86th Street. It is customary for the New York Archbishop to review the parade in front of St Patrick's. 

The St Patrick's Day Parade is one of the few remaining where no cars, floats, buses, trucks or other vehicles are allowed. People march, march, march up Fifth Avenue, led by members of the 165th Infantry (originally the Irish 69th Regiment of Fighting Irish fame). Sponsored by the Ancient Order of Hibernians, the more than 150,000 marchers are members of various Irish societies from New York and around the country; many Eire-based societies make the Atlantic crossing to trek the two miles uptown. Large contingents include the Emerald Societies of the New York City Police and Fire Departments, and any politician running for office within a 50-mile radius. 

Viewing the parade is a snap. It starts 11:00A at 42nd Street and makes it way up Fifth Avenue to 86th Street. There is no best place to see the parade, though the Archbishop usually greets the marchers at St Patrick's Cathedral. Take any subway to Midtown and walk over to Fifth Avenue. Don't try to drive; you won't get very far. Similarly, traffic is affected on all streets surrounding the parade route; a bus will get you nowhere fast. 

Last year's parade is a tribute to those New York City fire fighters and police officers who gave their lives in the World Trade Center attack. Cardinal Edward M Egan, Archbishop of New York and the grand marshal of the parade, will walk up the parade route, then return to the Archbishop's usual spot, greeting parade marchers in front of St Patrick's Cathedral. At about 11:30P, Cardinal Egan will call for a moment of silence, in remembrance of the 9-11-01 victims.

This year Raymond L. Flynn will be the 2007 New York City Saint Patrick's Day Parade Grand Marshal.



The Parade will be reviewed from the steps of Saint Patrick's Cathedral by His Eminence Cardinal Edward Eagan, Archbishop of New York. It will also be reviewed from the Official Reviewing Stand at 64th Street and 5th Avenue.



The parade marches up 5th Avenue, clan by clan, from 44th to 86th streets starting at 11am on St. Patrick's Day (Saturday, March 17th).

Former Grand Marshal include: 2005 Grand Marshal Denis P. Kelleher, 2004 Grand Marshal Thomas W. Gleason and 2003 James G. O'Connor was the Grand Marshal the year before, and Mayor Bloomberg marched along with nearly 150,000 others proudly wearing the green, as millions gawk along the parade route and watch on TV.

Four year ago marked the 241st New York St. Patrick's Day Parade, the world's largest. Edward Cardinal Egan was the Grand Marshall, and Mayor Bloomberg will marched along with nearly 150,000 others proudly wearing the green, as millions gawk along the parade route and watch on TV.

Several years ago parade was dedicated to the 'Heroes of 9/11, ' including police, fire and all rescue workers. At around midday, the parade will pause for one minute as Cardinal Egan leads participants in a prayer from the reviewing stand at 64th Street and 5th Avenue. It's a reminder that St. Paddy's Day is a religious holiday back in the motherland, even though for New Yorkers it's a chance to party hardy like any good Irishman. There probably isn't a bigger day when green face paint, green food coloring, green nail polish, and green clothes are on display. And there's pure Irish pageantry, of course, led by the 165th Infantry (originally the 69th Regiment of the 1850's). You'll see the Ancient Order of Hibernians, 30 Irish county societies and various Emerald, Irish-language and Irish nationalist societies.

The parade marches up 5th Avenue, clan by clan, from 44th to 86th streets starting at 11am on St. Patrick's Day (Saturday, March 17th). It will probably be televised on NBC.

The first official parade in the City was held in 1766 by Irishmen in a military unit recruited to serve in the American colonies. For the first few years of its existence, the parade was organized by military units until after the war of 1811. At that point in time, Irish fraternal and beneficial societies took over the duties of hosting and sponsoring the event.

Originally, Irish societies joined together at their respective meeting places and moved in a procession toward St. Patrick's Old Cathedral, St. James Church, or one of the many other Roman Catholic churches in the City. However, as the years passed, the size of the parade increased and around the year 1851, as individual societies merged under a single grand marshal, the size of the parade grew sharply.

Each year a unit of soldiers marches at the head of the parade; the Irish 165th Infantry (originally the 69th Regiment of the 1850's) has become the parade's primary escort, and they are followed by the various Irish societies of the city. Some of the other major sponsors and participants in the parade are the Ancient Order of Hibernians, the thirty Irish county societies, and various Emerald, Irish-language, and Irish nationalist societies.

The annual parade down Fifth Avenue to honor the patron saint of Ireland is a New York tradition that dates as far back as 1766. The festivities kick off at 44th Street and Fifth Avenue at 11:00 am on Saturday, March 17th, with bagpipers, high school bands, and the ever-present politicians making their way up Fifth Avenue to 86th Street, where the parade will probably finish around 4:30 or 5:00 pm.

The best viewing spots are toward the north end of the parade route, away from the shopping and work-a-day crowds that throng the sidewalks below 59th Street. Try sitting on the upper steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art for a great view or catching a close-up view of the marchers where the parade turns east on 86th Street.

The New York Convention & Visitors Bureau says that the St. Patrick's Day Parade is the largest and most famous of the many parades held in the city each year.

Colonial New York City hosted the first official St. Patrick's Day parade in 1762, when Irish immigrants in the British colonial army marched down city streets. In subsequent years Irish fraternal organizations also held processions to St. Patrick's Cathedral. The various groups merged sometime around 1850 to form a single, grand parade.

The parade marches up 5th Avenue, from 44th to 86th streets starting at 11am on St. Patrick's Day (Saturday, March 17th). It will probably be televised on NBC.

‘Bibo kid’ ... from YOUNGBLOOD of INQUIRER.net

YOUNGBLOOD
'Bibo kid'
By Leslie E. Vicente
Inquirer
Last updated 01:07am (Mla time) 03/17/2007

MANILA, Philippines -- At some point, I thought I had lost it. But every time my colleagues' enthusiasm captures my attention, I feel like the "bibo" [high-vitality, or self-confident] kid from my past would like to make a comeback.

If your blood pressure rises because some two-legged creature keeps you from having an early lunch with endless questions during classes and seminars, you can hit me. If you are tired of seeing the same face in front of the class or on the podium, then you can hit me again. And if you were one of those applicants or neophyte teachers who felt strained by a rainfall of questions and arguments aimed mainly to heighten your anxiety, then you can hit me again and again.

I don't know how everything started or how things changed.

On my first day in school, I silently stood outside the classroom for over an hour despite my teacher's insistent invitation for me to come inside. Meek as a lamb, I stayed near the door, too afraid to enter the room filled with kids who must have gobbled a year's supply of energy. I don't know how I finally managed to move my feet and find a chair inside the room.

In the succeeding days, I rarely found the courage to talk to my seatmates. Playing with my peers seemed like a strange thing for me to do. During recitation, since my teachers always asked me to speak louder, I thought that was a normal occurrence.

I can very well recall the result of my first set of exams in preschool. On a thick green paper, my teacher drew an award and asked the entire class to guess who among us got a perfect score. After shouting the names of almost all my classmates, nobody got the right answer. And when the prize was handed to me, many were surprised to know that I actually existed.

Eventually, evolution caught up with the very timid and soft-spoken school grader who always got the lowest rating for sociability. Gradually, I learned that speaking out was not bad at all since no one got persecuted for exercising one's vocal cords. I realized that I wouldn't be devoured alive if I participated in school activities, that I wouldn't melt down if I presented something in front of the class. Now, I can actually do a lot of things that I never thought I could do when I was still an antisocial mute.

It happened fast. One day, I just woke up to realize that I already belonged to the imaginary Bibo Kids' Club.

Whether I was able to deceive my classmates of my leadership ability or they were fond of making odd choices, I don't know. But in high school, I was consistently elected as class president. I joined various clubs and participated in various school programs and activities. I represented the school in numerous academic competitions: math, science, general information, and even journalism. For every poster and collage-making contest held several times in a year, I led our class in the conceptualization. For the endless plays required in our class, I wrote the script and directed. I also played chess in an inter-school sports fest, designed the batch T-shirt and coordinated the cheering competition during intramurals. When I was in third year, I held the second highest position in both the student council and the student publication. The following year, I edited the campus paper.

And yes, I did a Filipiniana dance number on stage during one of our school activities despite having two left feet. I tried hard not to look like a dancing retardate.

During those younger days, passivity and exhaustion departed from my vocabulary. The pleasure I got from speaking in front of a crowd continued to grow. In fact, while we were preparing for our graduation ceremonies in high school, I told some of the faculty members that I would gladly be their commencement speaker a number of years thence.

In college, I quickly found out that the members of the Bibo Kids' Society were so much more than I expected. Countless times, I opted to be silent. But there were more instances when I felt bothered and restless if I did not raise my hand and recite in class. And just like before, my ego hurt if I did not get the highest scores.

I must have bumped my head somewhere, but one day I just learned there was such a thing as maturity. Even if I wanted to prove something to myself, my towering expectations were already causing me more discontent than fulfillment. I was like a child who never gets satisfied with her toy and continues to yearn for attention.

Slowly, my perspective widened. I devoted more of my time to things in which I found more meaning.

I became active in academic organizations that went beyond the classroom and practiced social responsibility. For three years, I committed a significant amount of my time and effort to the campus publication that served the entire studentry. I joined the liturgical committee of the university parish as a lector during Masses. I still aimed to graduate with Latin honors not only to reward my parents but also because I wanted to make sure I would not find myself jobless.

The road was not easy. I remember nights when I lay in bed in agony because of a severe headache. My eyes would well up in tears. I was probably pushing myself too hard. In those distressing hours, I would hold a small bottle of White Flower in my hand while thinking of what I had done the past years. Then I would think far into the future and consider possibilities. What if I died at that very moment? Have I already served my purpose? I was sure that I was not yet ready to go.

Soon I realized that I was running too fast. I was missing the scenery. I knew very well that I had to spend more time on the activities and with the people I valued most. I had to slow down and put the "bibo" kid in silent mode. "Bibo" kids are not born. Becoming one is a matter of choice.

Now after working in an auditing firm for nearly three years, I have come across hundreds of "bibo kids" -- from clients to colleagues in the workplace. They remind me of a past that never fails to make me smile. The "bibo" kid in me must have died, but the dreams remain.

I dream of being able to leave an indelible mark, but this time it is not by achieving so much. The medals and trophies proudly displayed on the shelf will soon be covered with dust. They will tarnish. They will be forgotten. In the end, what will remain is that which has been instilled in the heart.

Leslie E. Vicente, 23, a certified public accountant, is a senior associate in an auditing firm in Makati City.

Copyright 2007 Inquirer. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

Nationwide TV Ratings : February 25, 2007 : Sunday

Nationwide TV Ratings : February 25, 2007 : Sunday

Philippine Nationwide TV ratings
February 25, 2007
Primetime - Sunday

S Files (GMA)- 16.0%
The Buzz (ABS-CBN)- 26.5%

Mga Kwento ni Lola Basyang (GMA)- 16.3%
TV Patrol Linggo (ABS-CBN)- 29.1%

Starstruck (GMA)- 18.1%
Goin' Bulilit (ABS-CBN)- 34.6%

Mel and Joey (GMA)- 11.2%
Rated K (ABS-CBN)- 44.5%

All Star K (GMA)- 8.8%
Sharon (ABS-CBN)- 34.5%
Pinoy Big Brother (ABS-CBN) (pilot)- 36.0%

February 26, 2007
Primetime - Monday

24 Oras (GMA)- 22.4%
TV Patrol World (ABS-CBN)- 36.8%

Asian Treasures (GMA)- 28.6%
Sana Maulit Muli (ABS-CBN)- 36.5%

Super Twins (GMA)- 31.5%
Maging Sino Ka Man (GMA)- 37.2%

Bakekang (GMA)- 29.1%
Maria Flordeluna (ABS-CBN)- 33.6%

Jumong (GMA)- 19.9%
Pinoy Big Brother (ABS-CBN)- 42.3%

Starstruck (GMA)- 18.6%
Princess Hours (ABS-CBN)- 35.5%

Lagot Ka, Isusumbong Kita! (GMA)- 10.1%
Bandila (ABS-CBN)- 15.8%

GMA-22.9%
ABS-CBN- 33.9%

Nationwide TV Ratings : February 20, 2007 : Primetime - Wednesday

Nationwide TV Ratings : February 20, 2007 : Primetime - Wednesday

Philippine Nationwide TV Ratings
February 21, 2007
Primetime - Wednesday

24 Oras (GMA)- 22.5%
TV Patrol World (ABS-CBN)- 33.4%

Asian Treasures (GMA)- 34.1%
Deal or No Deal (ABS-CBN) (final week)- 34.0%

Super Twins (GMA)- 31.1%
Maria Flordeluna (ABS-CBN)- 32.2%

Bakekang (GMA)- 26.4%
Sana Maulit Muli (ABS-CBN)- 39.9%

Jumong (GMA)- 23.1%
Maging Sino Ka Man (ABS-CBN)- 36.2%

Starstruck (GMA)- 12.7%
Princess Hours (ABS-CBN)- 35.0%

Nuts Entertainment (GMA)- 4.5%
Bandila (ABS-CBN)- 14.4%

GMA- 22.05
ABS-CBN- 32.15

Is Your Lamp Lighted?... Article from Bo Sanchez' PErsonal Blog... nice one

Is Your Lamp Lighted?
Emy Serafica Preaches To Me One Last Time

When I was 14 years old, I led the first ever prayer meeting of the Light of Jesus Community. My family was there, and so were twenty other people. Looking back, it was pretty comic. Why would a bunch of grown-ups follow a kid in a crummy tee shirt, jogging pants, and sandals? Especially a kid who watched Voltes V and even memorized its theme song? But that was what happened.
A few weekly prayer meetings more, Emy Serafica walked through the door for the first time. A tall, lanky fellow with a strong chin and broad smile, he looked like a 70's actor. Not matinee idol material, but those guys with character roles. Like he could be the buddy of the main star or something like that.
We learned that Emy was a natural leader. A salesman by profession, he was also an eloquent speaker and read the Bible like crazy. Soon, Emy became one of our "Elders". I shared the pulpit with him and people enjoyed his preaching. If you're my age, and you caught Jimmy Swaggart preach on TV, that was Emy's preaching style. Fiery, dramatic, and powerful.
I remember something unique about his talks: They usually had three main points.
I personally enjoyed listening to him preach.
Though I was still his leader, Emy preached better than me. Naturally, my mother will object to that statement with the violence of a volcano erupting after 900 years of dormancy. But I really think he preached better than me at that stage because he was much older (he was 32 and I was 15) and more experienced.
When I turned 18 years old, I stopped studying and worked full-time for the community. And so did Emy. (Just as a side note, in case there are kids reading this who might get funny ideas, I eventually went back to college and finished my Philosophy degree and even took up Masters in Theology.)
The community rented an apartment as an office. To work more closely together, Emy and his wife Lydia moved next door and made it their home.
Yes, Emy and I were not only co-leaders, he was my dear friend.
I remember the many nights we swapped stories, we debated about the Bible, and we shared dreams together.
As the years went by, Light of Jesus grew in number, and I asked Emy to lead one of our 5 sub-groups.
One day, at the end of a leader's retreat, we had a commitment ceremony.
Before it began, Emy called me to a corner of the room and asked, "Bo, is this a commitment to the community or to God? What if God calls me elsewhere?" I told him that it was a commitment first of all to God, but it was also a commitment to community "as long as God tells you to stay here." He thanked me and joined the commitment ceremony.
But deep inside, I already knew he wasn't going to stay long.
True enough, a few months after, he asked me if we could chat.
He said he felt God was leading him to leave the community. He was also bringing with him twenty members of his sub-group to form a protestant church.
Leaving the community was one thing. But I was shocked that he was taking along my members—my friends! And I was doubly shocked that they were leaving the Catholic Church.
I felt numb. But I still wished him the best.
A few days after, I stood in front of our entire community of over 100 people and I had to break the agonizing news to them. I was 21 years old at that time and life didn't prepare me for announcements like this.
"One of our Elders, Emy Serafica, is leaving the community," I said, pausing amidst gasps of shock around me, "and twenty of our members are joining him. They're forming a new protestant church…"
People couldn't believe the news. And I understood what they were feeling. How could this happen to our little, cozy, tight, loving group? People began to sob right in front of me. Friendships were torn. Even some families were divided. Spasms of pain rippled through that crowd.
But I asked everyone to pray for blessings for them and to love them as our brothers and sisters in Christ. I asked them to greet them and to talk to them.
A week later, I decided to visit Emy in his new church.
His members were there—our former members. They were excited and happy, sweeping and cleaning their new rented hall that was to be their church.
I told them that even if we weren't anymore in one group or even in the Catholic Church, we'd always be friends. We ended by praying together, hugging each other.
I became busy and I lost contact with Emy for many years.
In the meantime, the Light of Jesus community went about their work for God. We grew by leaps and bounds, expanding to different ministries and territories.
Fourteen long years later, I met his wife Lydia. She came to see me to sell life insurance. After buying a plan from her, I asked her, "How's Emy doing?"
"Many years ago, our church disbanded. Emy is back as a salesman. He's no longer preaching, Bo."
Instantly, I felt as though a knife stabbed my chest. I'm a preacher and I knew what Emy was feeling. For a preacher not to preach anymore is like an old lamp left in a dark corner, unlighted, collecting dust and rust, never used. I felt sad for such a wasted gift. Emy was such a good preacher.
I told her it would be great to see Emy again.
And a few weeks later, Emy and I met finally. After so many years.
He had more white hair but his smile was as broad as ever.
We hugged each other for a long time.
And in expressions deeper than any words can ever say, we forgave each other for the pain of the past.
As we talked and laughed together, I couldn't help but think. I wondered what would have happened if he didn't leave. Would he still be my partner-in-ministry to this day, preaching God's Word? And would I still be personally enjoying and benefiting from his preaching? I brushed these thoughts aside.
But it was he who brought up a desire to serve again. "Bo, I have these things I've written—nothing doctrinal, I assure you. Do you think it can be published?"
"Let me have a look at it," I said.
But he never gave it to me.
As months went by, Lydia would attend our prayer meetings, and once or twice, Emy would join her. I would bump into him at different times. I'm not sure of this, but I felt that he was carrying a sense of regret or shame in him. Deep down, I felt he still wanted to go back and serve God through preaching again.
A few weeks ago, I heard the news.
Emy Serafica had a massive heart attack.
My friend was gone at the young age of 57.
I visited his wake and asked his wife the one burning question in my mind, "Lydia, did Emy ever preach again?"
"A few months ago, he was invited by a small prayer group. Yes, he preached again. He gave them four talks, one for each month."
I smiled. The lamp was taken out of the darkness, dusted, cleaned, polished, and lighted again.
I will miss that broad smile of Emy.
I will miss his preaching.
Too bad I wasn't there to listen to his last talks.
But then it struck me.
Emy did preach to me one last time.
And he did it through his death.
And like the Emy I used to know, he preached three major points to me…
The First Point: Life is very short.
The Second Point: Conflicts, divisions, fights—the deepest and most hurting—don't matter at death. They cease to exist. From the perspective of eternity, all conflicts and fights are petty. They're washed away by time. One step after death's door, we'll all be laughing with our enemies—laughing at how petty we were.
I'm thankful that before Emy stepped in death's door, we were able to have that laugh this side of earth.
The Third Point: I realized that I don't want to live a life of regret. Because life is very short, I will use my Lamp and light it until the last breath of my soul.
Friend, what is your lamp?
I believe God has given every human being a particular lamp.
It's the primary language of your soul. Some call it your Sacred Contract. Your core gift to the world.
For me it's preaching. And writing.
For others, it's cooking, technology, business, singing, counselling…
You may be one of those who know what their lamp is.
Then there's only one question left to ask.

Is your lamp lighted?

To limp or to fly? ... from YOUNGBLOOD of INQUIRER.net

YOUNG BLOOD
To limp or to fly?
By Tina Papera
Inquirer
Last updated 00:31am (Mla time) 03/13/2007

“How do you manage to take a bath?”

I don’t know how many times that question has been asked the past several days and I wish I have counted them. Then I would have known which is more important to other people, how to a take bath or how to fit into my usual tight pants, given my “situation.”

Ever since the accident, my life has taken a different turn. No, the accident was not life-threatening at all, or at least that was what those who saw it have told me. Things just suddenly felt heavier, and a little more difficult. Sometimes there are incidents, or unwanted events that make you rethink your entire existence. This was one of them.

No day could be more vivid in my memory than that day. I woke up feeling as if the whole world was at my feet. The New Year had given me signs that I was starting on the right foot. I was given the opportunity that I have been hoping for some time. I had my whole week planned out; a few adjustments here and there on my list of to-dos and I’d just be breezing through the days. I was starting that Wednesday morning just like any other rare positive day.

I was alone and on my way to work. Just a few blocks away from our house, I got off the tricycle and started walking briskly toward where I would catch a jeepney. I was halfway across, when the thing hit me.

My life stopped very briefly -- some 10 seconds or so. When I became conscious, I felt like a 50-pound brick had fallen on my left leg. I could not move it. Either my nerves had turned numb or the pain was just too much that I could not tell what I was feeling. I was already crying when it occurred to me that I had been hit by a speeding motorcycle.

My knee was bleeding. A patch of denim was ripped from one knee. Everyone around was probably stunned because it took them a few minutes to move to help a girl who was lying face down on the service road in Parañaque City, with one leg immobilized.

One tricycle driver called another to help pull me off the road and bring me to the nearest hospital, just a few meters away from where we were.

I was almost hysterical. The last thing I wanted was to be moved, which was sheer torture. The trip to the hospital was the longest five minutes of my life.

As I was being brought to the hospital, I heard that the rider who had hit me was helping carry me there. I wished I could lay my hands on something to throw at him. But my arms kept rubbing my leg, and my mind just wandered.

As I type this, I am trying my best not to think about how itchy it feels inside my plaster cast. My foot is sending signals to my brain that only a small amount of blood is flowing underneath it.

The doctor told me it would take only a month before my leg can breathe and I can walk, dance and run again. But for now, a month is like forever.

I reported to work one day, but my boss advised me to take a leave, get some rest and recover. I told her that being unable to work, and having more moments to ponder the pain of being temporarily crippled would kill me.

I am getting used to the jeers of colleagues who think the way I walk is funny. The more immature ones even imitate me, and walk like an amputee. And yes, almost everyone has asked me how I manage to bathe myself.

An even more impertinent question thrown at me was: How could you have sex with a cast? My simple answer to the stupid question: If there’s a will, there’s a way.

I was never asked how all this has affected me. Or maybe even changed me. Nevertheless, I would say I have been humbled by it.

Up to now, my family is still searching for the rider who hit me because he disappeared after I was transferred to San Juan De Dios Hospital. But I have resigned myself to the fact that we would not find him. I know God sees everything and that He saw what happened. If the guy would not be able to pay for the hospital bills, so be it. Every night I thank the Lord that I am still alive. I got my second chance to make a difference.

Isn’t the fact that I will get to use my leg again just grand? During the first few days when I was in pain, physically and emotionally, I complained and sulked over my misfortune.

But now, I know He allow things to happen for a reason. I don’t have my own car or driver to bring or fetch me to and from work. I have to endure the agonizing journey, feeling every bump below my foot, getting flashes of what happened, dreading the sight of motorcycles and hearing again the crashing sound. But I try to be strong. I tell myself that while I may be stable on just one foot now, God is holding me up on the other.

A few days ago, the management honored me with an award. It was the first award given for the year. It was called “Wowing Passion Award.” We are a service company and one of the virtues we value most is passion.

Before the award was handed out to me, our HR manager said it was being given to someone who had become an inspiration to others in our workplace. He said my example showed that no one has a valid reason to feel exhausted or incapable of doing things.

I think God never gives us trials that we cannot overcome. When we are crippled, it is up to us whether to limp or to fly.

Tina Papera, 27, is a store marketing manager for Shakey’s.

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